


A Voice in the Night

by minnabird



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, France (Country), Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 17:22:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1991370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/minnabird/pseuds/minnabird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Harry Potter is gone, but the fight moves on without him. British wizards alone cannot topple You-Know-Who. Fear and death have brought us to the point of defeat. We must change our ways if we wish to survive. We need allies."</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Voldemort reigns victorious over wizarding Britain. What is left of the Order is doing its best simply to survive. Hermione has been sent to France to try to win allies with the help of a French Auror. But when people start turning up dead, they 're drawn into a deadly game inside the walls of Paris' wizarding quarter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Voice in the Night

Everywhere she looked was flat and grey: the sea, the sand, the scrubby land at her back. Even the sky hung low and frowning. It could almost have been England, Hermione thought. She felt, at the moment, like the only person in the world.

She spun as a crack splintered the air. She found a tall, bulky man with hair parted neatly to one side. “It’s all right,” the man said. A silver watch chain crossed the front of his robes, catching the light as he shifted, offering his hand. Hermione drew back warily, holding her wand out before her. He raised his hands. “‘If you prick us, do we not bleed?’” he quoted, and she relaxed. 

“‘Blood will have blood,’” Hermione replied. A thought surfaced, that Ron would have found this set of overdramatic passphrases particularly funny, but she pushed it away and shook the offered hand instead. “Is it safe to talk here?” she asked. 

The man shook his head. “Will you allow me to Apparate with you?” he asked, and she nodded. Hermione bent over, holding her stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” she said, once she had swallowed down the urge to vomit. “I Apparated across the Channel.” She straightened and looked around. They stood in a tidy garden. 

“Apparated?” he said, clearly astonished, and she turned her eyes back to him. 

“Yes.” 

The man started forward and took her arm, steadying her. “Come inside,” he said. “You must sit down. I am Gérard Cloutier - call me Gérard, as we are to be comrades-in-arms.” 

He led her inside and deposited her in an armchair, then left the room to make tea. She blinked. The room was quiet and clean. The soft furnishings matched the red in the Persian carpet that warmed the floor. It was so far from what she had been accustomed to these past months. First there had been the interminable search for the Horcruxes, where she had cast what felt like hundreds of protective spells and slept with sticks poking into her back. And then the disastrous battle. Her mind skipped over the thought, and the reminder that Harry was gone. She thought instead of the endless string of safe houses and covert meeting-places, rooms shared with Ron, and the still-continuing fight against Voldemort. 

Gérard returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Hermione and sat on the sofa, his body turned towards her. “I was not given your name,” he said. 

“Oh.” Hermione straightened, automatically reverting to looking prim and businesslike. “It’s Hermione. You’ve been told what I’m here for, haven’t you? I was told arrangements were being made.” 

“Yes. In fact, I have been doing that, with the help of a few like-minded others. We have an identity and a cover story for you – I can give you the packet whenever you like.” 

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “Where are we, by the way?” 

“Paris,” Gérard said. “Within the Quartier Féerique. It’s my house, actually. I had planned on setting you up in my extra room for the time being.” He shrugged, seeming a bit abashed. “I hope that’s all right.” 

“Will it be safe, close to so many wizards?” Hermione asked. 

“This house is well-protected, and I am a…what is it called in English, again? I chase after criminals.” 

“An Auror,” Hermione supplied, with some relief. At least he was accustomed to danger. 

“Yes.” Gérard sipped his tea. “Besides, there is no overt support of the Death Eaters’ activities here. I cannot say what people do behind closed doors, but it is very much the fashion in this neighborhood to ignore what happens outside of it. It’s best to be cautious, of course, which is why you will not be telling people to call you Hermione.” 

“What will they be calling me, then?” she asked, setting her mug aside. Gérard stood and went to a desk in the corner of the room. He tapped a drawer with his wand, opened it, and came back across the room with a folder in hand. Hermione reached for it, and he let her have it. 

“Sophie Roper,” she said. “People will certainly have an easier time pronouncing that.” She flicked through the pages inside. They detailed who this Sophie Roper was, right down to her school record. “I had better OWLs than this,” she commented. 

“But no NEWTs at all,” Gérard said. “Besides, someone with your marks would be – pardon the phrasing – more remarkable. You are not here to be an outstanding student, remember.” 

“No,” she said, almost wistfully. “I _am_ to be a student, then? Do I need to apply?” 

“I have done that, as well. If you’ll look at the next page, there is your acceptance letter. You do know French?” 

“Yes, somewhat,” Hermione said. “I’m rusty, but I’ve been studying.” She scanned the letter; it was in French, but the relevant phrases would pop out. “Université Boniface Toubeau?” 

“It’s the largest of the three, and right across the river.” 

She nodded, quelling the spark of excitement inside her. This would have been a brilliant opportunity, in another life, but – as Gérard had said – she was not here to learn. She was here to recruit help. “ _Harry Potter may be gone, but the fight moves on without him. British wizards alone cannot topple You-Know-Who. Fear and death have brought us to the point of defeat,_ ” McGonagall had said, before the remaining members of the Order. “ _We must change our ways if we wish to survive. We need allies._ ” It had been a few months after the Battle of Hogwarts at that point, and few had any hope left. McGonagall had given them hope, and purpose. Some were still at home, protecting those there, but others, like Hermione, were smuggling themselves across the world in search of help. 

Hermione felt terribly unprepared. She had run and fought and executed covert missions, but for all her cleverness, she had never been very good at making friends. 

Taking a deep breath, Hermione set the file aside and turned back to Gérard, smiling. “Where will I be staying, then?” 

* * *

Gérard’s house, as it turned out, was her planned accommodation: he had an extra bedroom and a number of protective spells in place. For all its comforts, it felt like yet another safe house, another stop on her never-ending flight from Voldemort. She occupied herself first by reading one of Gérard’s books, then, when he brought home a fat package of supplies for the term ahead, her textbooks. She was grateful to Gérard, and with his permission, did some chores around the house as well to make up for not being able to pay him back for books and food. He woke early and worked well into the evenings, so they only saw each other a few hours a day, but the camaraderie of shared secret work eased their awkwardness together. 

Late one night, Hermione gave up staring at the patterns of bumps on the ceiling and sat up in bed. She reached out and grabbed her portable radio off the nightstand. Her bare feet made little noise as she walked downstairs to the sitting room; less than the soft, sleepy hooting of the neighbor’s honking daffodils. 

She turned the radio on, keeping the volume low. She whispered, “Lupin,” as she tapped it with her wand. She sighed. It had been unlikely, anyway, that Potterwatch would be on this late at night. She left the radio on the first station she came to, resting her head on the sofa arm as she listened to it sing tinnily in French. 

After a few minutes, or perhaps half an hour, she heard feet shuffling on the stairs. She glanced up as Gérard came into the room and was surprised. She hadn’t seen him anything less than neat and well turned out before; now he was in rumpled pyjamas, his hair a mess. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked. She shook her head. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. He took the chair. “Some nights every noise wakes me,” he said, sighing. Hermione turned to him, about to apologize, but he shook his head. “It’s just worry. Same as you, I’d imagine.” 

“My boyfriend’s still in that mess,” she said abruptly. “Him and his family.” 

Gérard looked her over. “None of your own?” he asked gently. 

“They’re in Australia,” she said, looking down. “I sent them away.” She sat up properly, wrapping her arms around one of her knees. “What are you doing involved in this, anyway?” 

He shrugged. “Could you look at us if we were having such troubles and not want to help?” 

Hermione thought about that for long moments, remembering her idealistic crusades past. She hoped she could be so ready to fight for others in the future, if she had a future. “No, I couldn’t,” she finally said. She met his eyes, and he smiled at her. 

“I thought not,” he said. 

* * *

The start of her university career approached fast, and Hermione solidified her plans for living as Sophie Roper. The morning of her first day of classes, she made the first steps. Transfiguration accomplished a lot: Sophie had a bigger nose, she decided, and rather thick eyebrows. But her final act was to get rid of her most distinguishing feature. 

She surveyed her work in the mirror afterwards. Though it was a non-magical change, somehow cutting her hair felt the strangest. She had got a bit overzealous, and now it was barely long enough to run her fingers through. _At least it will be easy to manage this way,_ she thought ruefully. 

When she stepped out into the sun for the first time since her arrival in Paris, she felt, for a brief moment, like a different person. She turned her head and smiled at Gérard as he joined her. He took her arm and they Apparated together. They landed in a park, or perhaps a garden. 

“The Quartier Latin,” Gérard murmured to her. They spoke French today; Hermione didn’t want to stand out as a tourist, and she would have to in class, anyway. “Plenty of schools here – there’s just one the Muggles don’t know about.” He tapped his nose, smiling. Hermione followed him out onto the street, looking around with interest. Her gaze stuttered and stopped on a grey-haired man. A flash of memory hit her like a hex: his smirk as they dueled during the Battle, and then the agony and horror of enduring the Cruciatus Curse again. 

“What is it?” Gérard asked. 

Hermione remembered that she barely looked like herself and affected calmness. “Travers. A Death Eater. Let’s just keep walking.” Could it just be a coincidence? But why else would a Death Eater be here in Paris, right where she needed to be? She kept glancing at him, but he never turned to look at them. In fact, he was walking away. She frowned. 

“Remember that the school is protected against Apparition,” Gérard murmured. He tucked a small pouch into her hand, and she looked at it. “Floo powder,” he said. “In case you don’t feel secure walking home.” 

“Thanks,” she said, relieved. 

He led her into a shop front. The tinkle of the bell on the door seemed muffled. The place was covered in dust. It swirled in the stark beams of sunlight that filtered in from outside, and she would swear it shifted underfoot. The floor was tiled in black and ruby-red. A single white tile stood out. Gérard strode forward and pointed his wand at it. “Open,” he said. 

The tile folded down and away, followed by another, and another, until a whole section of floor opened into a dark hole. Hermione was about to ask if she was meant to fall down it when the dust began to shift in earnest, washing in a grey tide towards the dark space. As it fell through, it began to glow, and coalesce into the shape of stairs. Within moments, there was a solid-looking staircase, though it still glowed, illuminating the corridor below. 

“You can take the Floo tomorrow,” Gérard said, grinning. “I thought you would like to get the full effect on your first day.” 

“I have never dreaded school so much in my life,” she murmured. 

“Just be yourself,” Gérard advised. “Remember, you have a story to share. And plenty of people will be curious about you already – they’ll know most of the other French students; newcomers are always a novelty.” 

Hermione nodded. He had more faith in her ability to make people like her than she did, but there was no question of turning back now. This was a vital mission, and even if she wasn’t the best equipped, she was still going to try her hardest. For a moment, she wished Ron was here with her, to crack annoying jokes, or just share a smile, reminding her that she wasn’t alone. Or Harry, who had always, somehow, made everyone around him braver. But that wasn’t possible, either. She started down the staircase, turning to wave goodbye as the tiles started to close back up over her head. 

**Author's Note:**

> This is being written for the TV challenge on MuggleNet Fanfiction. The chapter title is from Avatar: the Last Airbender, as dictated by the challenge. Story title is from a Korra episode title. The two lines quoted as passphrases are from Shakespeare. The first is from The Merchant of Venice, the second from Macbeth. Sophie Roper is from JKR's list of the Original Forty (and does not exist in the world of this fic).


End file.
